Tender
by crimson-obsidian-rose
Summary: All he wants to do is help; why must the Hero be so stubborn? - France/America, hints of onesided America/?


Expect to be seeing a few more fics from me over the next few days, okay? I realized I have a few I haven't posted here, and I do want to share them!! I hope you enjoy this small taste of a pairing that really isn't all that common around these parts.

Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Himaruya-sensei, who is not me.

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Tender

France was not at all surprised when America had taken his time getting to the door, although it was absolutely not very appreciated. American winters were not fun, especially not up in Boston when temperatures were so below freezing they should be illegal. Add to the mix the piled snow that had him buried to his knees in it's iciness, and you had one obviously very unhappy Frenchman.

But, the instant America had opened his front door and France saw his face (exactly what he was expecting, and the very look he'd been dreading), all annoyance flew out of his mind.

"France? What are you doing here?" The American had weary, bloodshot eyes, their puffiness almost-but-not quite masked by his glasses, and his cheeks and nose were rosy red.

"Can I not stop by for a visit occasionally, _mon cher_? But, more importantly, are you alright?"

America sniffled a little. "What, this?" There was a grin on his face, but it was so fake that France had to resist the impulse to slap it away. "Just a cold. Not exactly friendly weather out here."

"Hm, so I noticed. Perhaps we should move these pleasantries indoors then, before your sickness worsens." If America noticed France lightly grip his hand, then he'd uncharacteristically decided not to comment on it.

"Right, that sounds like a plan." The younger male rubbed the neck of his head sheepishly, and led France into his living area. France removed his winter coat almost unwillingly, but the house was quite warm and so he didn't take long for his fingertips to return to him. He sat down on the loveseat, and patted the empty space beside him.

"Come sit, _cher_, we have not spoken for so long. Let us _catch up_, as you would say, _non_?"

America looked a little intimidated by France's openness, but then, there wasn't a nation who wouldn't have been, knowing the Frenchman's perverse nature. Shaking it off, the teen sat on the loveseat, leaning back against it and smiling.

"So, what'd you come all the way up here to talk about? Or did you just miss me so much you couldn't help but come during the biggest blizzard of the year to indulge in my hotness?"

France smirked. "_C'est vrai, mon cher,_ you are _trés beau_, but that is not why I am here."

"Oh? So, what's up?"

Why did American slang have to sound so hot sometimes? Especially when paired with that winning smile and a slight eyebrow raise that America probably didn't notice he'd done; for a moment France almost forgot the puffy eyes and rosy cheeks that were still all too visible.

But only for a moment.

"I wouldn't know, Alfred, I am not the one who has changed."

Blonde brows furrowed over bloodshot eyes.

"What are yo-"

"_Cher_, please, you have not been the same since-"

"Francis!" The Frenchman paused at the outburst, and when America had returned to his senses his cheeks darkened in color.

"Ah, there it is. Tell me, Alfred, it is not healthy to keep things bottled up."

America's expression was so forced, it make France want to cringe. Cringe, and then soothe the boy until all pretenses faded. The smile didn't reach his eyes, and his lips were almost, just barely quavering at their upturn.

"There is nothing to tell, Francis. He's happy, so I'm happy. That is how a hero feels."

France shook his head a bit, blonde bangs brushing over his forehead.

"Even the hero needs love." His warm breath ghosted over America's lips, their noses brushing and lips barely doing so.

"France, n-no… I-I'm-"

"_Beautiful_." The Frenchman whispered hotly, finally closing the space between their lips for the briefest of instants in a chaste, short-lived kiss. His fingertips slipped beneath his glasses, running over the tired, puffy skin gently.

"Are you going to tell me what is wrong, _mon coeur_?"

"Nothing is wrong, Francis."

"I wish I could believe you, _cher_-"

"Then do!" By now America sounded near hysteria.

"-But you've been crying."

_End._

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I hope you all enjoyed~

crimson-obsidian-rose


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